


Frying Pans

by AyashiTetsuko132



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, modern marauders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 23:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20804645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AyashiTetsuko132/pseuds/AyashiTetsuko132
Summary: Knives are not the only object which value depends on the person who wields it, Sirius Black concluded.





	Frying Pans

Sirius Black had tons of jokes involving frying pans.

There was that silly song that he liked to sing when there was no teacher in the classroom, of course. There was also all sort of terrible puns involving the cooking utensil.

But his classmates considered his peak as that moment when the 17-year-old was drunk enough to take Polaroid pictures with nothing but a frying pan covering his private. Most of them had never even seen the photo, as it was safely hidden in a secret compartment in his bedroom. But its existence formed some sort of a local legend that they thought it would be the end of an era.

But they were wrong. Sirius was just taking a break. There was still plenty of room to explore. He would continue to make jokes about --and involving-- frying pans.

I mean, what is a frying pan, anyway?

It was an object commonly found in households throughout Great Britain --and the rest of the world. Unlike knives or pots, its proper uses were kind of limited to, uh … frying something.

At least that was what he used to think. Until he discovered that knives were not the only utensil which value depended on the person who wielded it.

In the hands of a trained chef, a frying pan can produce some of the best delicacies in the world. He had tasted them on those rare occasions when his parents would take him and his brother out to a fine dining restaurant.

But in the hands of his mother, a frying pan could be a weapon.

Its material was light enough to swing, yet hard enough to hurt. Especially when moved in just the right speed. And aimed at the right spots on the body.

Sirius knew. His mother once slammed one towards the side of his head.

It took him days to recover from the buzzing inside his head.

The first time it happened, he called out to his father. He knew for sure that the man was in the sitting room, reading the evening newspaper. He could hear the boy screaming, but he showed no signs of care. Let alone to get up, stop his wife, and save his son.

Oh. Right. Sirius almost forgot. In this household, the children were the mother’s business. The men have nothing to do with them. After work, their responsibility for the family was finished. It was time for television. Or newspaper, in his father’s case.

The second time it happened, he stopped screaming. He dragged his feet to the bathroom near the kitchen on the first floor, washing his face to ease the throbbing pain.

His brother would later knock, entering with a bowl of ice in hand. No words were exchanged between them. But they understand each other.

The way James Potter would understand and ask no question.

The matter of the frying pan was not something that Sirius spoke openly about. His classmates knew him as this popular, dangerously handsome lad who always had the right words to say to attract girls. But beyond the jokes, nothing had ever been told about frying pans.

In fact, he never said anything about it to Remus Lupin.

There was a time when Sirius spent a night at his home. It was small and crammed with books, unlike the Georgian style townhouse that the Black family lived in. But his heart secretly burned with envy.

For Mrs Lupin would never use a frying pan for anything but to make food for her family. There was no need for Remus to strip off and degrade the thing in such a way just to feel like he was above it.

Even if he did, Mr Lupin would not let that happen. Sirius was sure of that. The man knew how his son was doing in school, who his friends were. What music he listened to. Admittedly, that kind of father would not let harm comes into his way.

He almost hated Remus for that. For being that lucky.

Thankfully, Sirius was reminded of the scars that adorned the boy’s wrist. They brought him to the day he first met Remus, when he caught a glimpse of them peeking from underneath his sleeve. He thought the scars were really cool. It meant the boy was going through something.

Perhaps he was not that lucky at all.  
Perhaps they were the same.  
Perhaps they can be friends, or even more.

With that glimmer of hope, Sirius showed Remus more than just his skin and his kisses that night, when the boys opened themselves up to each other.

She hit me here, and here, Sirius pointed at different parts of his head.

Remus touched those spots. I am sorry that this happened to you, he said.

He would not say anything about his scars, but Sirius felt they had enough for one night. So they stopped talking and proceeded to touch.

Having enough was perhaps the theme that keeps Sirius moving forward. He made jokes, he stripped and covered his penis with frying pans. He hated frying pans and aimed to put it down to such level. For all the bad memories it had given to him.

But he had never felt so done as when his mother tried to slam his fingers with the cooking utensil.

Oh, no. No. Not that one. With the fingers, Sirius got to play the guitar. And he had big plans with the instrument. His fingers also enabled him to get a grip of his new motorbike; to please the girls and make them scream his name.

So when she aimed for his fingers, Sirius had enough.

He walked away and never turned back.

**Author's Note:**

> (I was supposed to be focussing on work this week, but then this fic happened. Will get back to my Remadora fic after October 20. Oh well. Sorry and thanks)


End file.
